The Dragons' Legacy
Page 43
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A few moments later, Iltar presses his way into the underground dungeon of the castle, descending several stairwells inside the southern tower without any interruption. Midar and Nordal are at his side, and the three men enter the first corridor of the lower levels of the castle. A few steps away from the base of the stairs is a wide doorway leading to the dungeon, with both of its doors wide open.
Beyond the doorway, a guard sitting at a table to the left of the door immediately looks up at the three intruders. “What are you doing here?”
“Die!” Iltar shouts as he turns to face the guard, uttering the words of an incantation.
Hearing the spell, Midar moves from the necromancer’s left back toward the doorway. In that same moment, a spray of yellow-green magic bursts from Iltar’s palm, turning into burning acid before it reaches the guard’s face.
Struck by the acidic magic, the sentinel withers in pain as the acid seeps through his skin and he attempts to peel the burning magic away.
With the guard incapacitated, Iltar quickly turns back to the corridor and leaves the guard to die from the acid burning through his skull.
Midar merely glances down at the guard screaming in pain as he passes by to catch up to Nordal and Iltar.
“Balden!” the necromancer calls out as he moves down the hall. “Where is that boy…?” Iltar continues to move down the prison corridor, calling the name of his former apprentice and looking into each of the cell doors as he passes. “Balden! It’s Iltar! Where are you?!
“Balden!”
Frustrated, the necromancer pounds on the door nearest him and Nordal continues onward. Iltar looks back along the corridor then mutters, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have killed–”
“Iltar!” a faint voice abruptly draws the necromancer’s attention, calling out from behind a door further down the hall. “I’m in here!”
Hearing Balden’s cry, Iltar turns around and chases after Nordal who is running toward the half-elf’s beckoning.
“I’m in here!” the masculine voice continues to call out accompanied with pounds against the door.
Nordal is the first to reach the recessed wooden cell door and turns the handle to open it, but to no avail. Seeing that it’s locked, the warrior takes a step back and shouts, “Move away from the door!”
Nordal kicks the door with the heel of his boot, repeatedly forcing his strength and weight into it; the door gives way just as the necromancer reaches the warrior’s side.
Within the cell, sitting atop a small bed against the far wall, is Balden. He is a young half-elf in his mid-twenties dressed in long black robes with long blonde hair down to his shoulders, covering his elven ears. Despite the poor living conditions, his hair is combed neatly and is perfectly straight. He has a thin pointed face and a long pointed nose. His cheeks are thin and their bones are barely visible along his slender face. Balden’s vibrant blue eyes are much like Iltar’s, and they search for his former master; Nordal, who is standing in the doorway, notices them and is genuinely taken aback.
Iltar arrives at the opened doorway and looks at the scene beyond the ruined threshold. When his eyes fall on his former apprentice at the back of the room, the necromancer gives him a rare heartfelt smile. Balden had been like a son to him all those years ago. It was a time when Iltar was not as consumed by achieving power as he is now. The older necromancer shakes his head at the sight of the young half-elf.
“My have you grown,” Iltar trail off with admiration.
Seeing his former master in the magical arts, Balden stands, returning Iltar’s smile in kind while walking toward the doorway. Midar arrives, and the half-elf glances to both warriors.
“I take it this is not a social visit?” Balden asks with a raised brow.
“That’s right,” Nordal states smugly.
“Come,” Iltar states as he reaches forward and motions with his hand for Balden to come near him. “We need to get out of here quickly.”
Once Balden nears, Iltar wraps his arm around his former apprentice’s shoulder and the four of them walk back toward the stairwell ascending from the dungeon.
“I have terminated your contract with Baron Cilgan,” Iltar states calmly.
“How?!” Balden interrupts, almost shouting. He smolders with anger, saying, “The council banished me here to work with that swine for forty years! I can remember their words…”
“My, has your voice deepened,” Iltar smiles before continuing. “But now, I am the council, my young friend.”
“Really?! Tell me what’s going on, Iltar. I don’t hear anything besides the screams of dying men I’m forced to torture for information. You wouldn’t believe the things they made me do when I first began…”
“Oh I’m sure I can,” the necromancer affirms to his former apprentice. “I will attempt to retell everything from several months ago.”
As they quickly walk back through the dungeon, Iltar tells Balden the story of his rise to power, leaving out details he would tell him later in private.
Once the quartet is partway up the stairs leading from the dungeon, a signaling whistle bounces off the stone walls encasing the stairwell.
“Is that the boy you were after?” Tilthan demands from beneath his cloak.
“Yes, this is Bal–”
“Balden! Do you know where the treasury is?” the words excitedly leave the thief’s mouth.
The half-elf looks around for the source of the invisible voice before answering hesitantly, “Yes… its behind the throne room.”
“Ugh… we were just there. Okay, I’ll meet you down at the ferry,” Tilthan states as his voice trails off without the sound of footsteps.
“You better get me something!” Nordal calls and chuckles.
After several minutes, Iltar and his three other companions traverse the diamond foyer and move through the doors at the front of the castle. The afternoon light beams down on the peaceful ward, shining on the faces of the quartet. As they emerge, Balden is the only one that shields his eyes against the brightness of Kalda’s sun.
Once outside, Iltar whistles the signal established by Cornar.
A variation of the tonal pattern replies back, and the three other warriors appear in front of them; Cornar is leaning against the corner of the wall that opens up to the bridge across the moat. Kalder is leaning against the other corner opposite of his mentor and Menal is sitting against the wall further down with his legs stretched out.
“Where is Tilthan?” Cornar asks with impatience.
“Looting the good baron’s horde of treasure,” Nordal chuckles.
Cornar shakes his head and rolls his eyes at the thief’s actions, “Well let’s leave without him.” The warrior notices the newest member of their band. He smiles as he recognizes the half-elf, moving closer to him for a greeting.
“Balden!” Cornar happily smiles as he stretches out his arms and wraps them around the grown half-elf. The two embrace and Cornar runs his hand through Balden’s blonde hair then shakes it out. “My you’ve grown!
“And I’m glad we finally freed you from this place,” Cornar’s words are filled with remorse, as if he had failed once before for someone else.
“Enough nostalgia,” Iltar says anxiously. “Balden, shroud yourself with magic along with Midar and Nordal here.” Then, pointing to the two warriors who had been with him at the time of the young half-elf’s rescue, Iltar warns, “No one should see you leave the path leading to the castle.”
Soon after their reunion outside the castle, each of the warriors disappear under their cloaks or Balden’s magic then walk down the winding path, with Iltar in their lead.
After a few minutes, the necromancer reaches the base of the trail and silently walks toward the gates leading to the city. The guards on the opposite side of the gate notice him and move to open the gate for him. However, Iltar pauses, just as he had when all the other doors opened to allow his invisible companions to pas
s by unnoticed.
“Your baron is pathetic,” Iltar calls out. “I will see that he is removed from his seat and another placed in his stead.”
“That kind of language is dangerous, stranger,” the guard who addressed Iltar when he first arrived states in a dubious tone. “And the baron’s influence reaches further than this island.”
Iltar simply laughs and then moves through the gate, donning his cowl and walking down the street away from the gateway.
After a quarter of an hour, Iltar arrives at the ferry docks. He stands alone at the edge of the pier, waiting for his companions to join his side.
One by one, the men emerge from between the tight alleys dividing the Serethian buildings. Balden is the last to join Iltar’s side, and the seven companions walk toward the wharf where a ferry boat waits for its final departure of the day.
Each of the members of Iltar’s infiltrating band take their seats near the ferry’s gangway and watch for Tilthan.
Just prior to the boat’s departure the thief hurriedly emerges from between the buildings. The pack used to carry the cloaks and his weapons bulges over his right shoulder while his bow and quiver are strapped above his other arm.
Nordal shakes his head as Tilthan steps aboard the ship and Cornar buries his forehead in his palm.
“What? It’s a bonus!”
Most of the warriors laugh aloud and several passengers on the ship look over to the small group of men with curiosity. Noticing their gaze, Iltar replies with a soul-piercing glare, which causes them to turn away abruptly.
“So, your pack is full, Tilthan,” Cornar states frankly. “Where are you going to put the cloaks?”
Taking a deep breath, Tilthan sets the heavy pack down and looks around at the men in his company before answering, “You can carry them.”
“That means you’re going to pay us for holding them, right?” Nordal looks up at his cunning friend. Both men had a strange but mutual affection for each other and bantered in this manner during times of victory.
“Fine, fine,” Tilthan pushes down on the air in front of him, as if suppressing the cries for money. “We’ll talk more on Soroth.”